Owen was already regretting his outfit. It was the third one he’d tried on that morning, and somehow still the wrong one – the sleeves clung to his wrists, conjuring thoughts he didn’t want to have. The collar, a little too high, made him feel like he’d dressed for a job interview instead of … this. Whatever this was.
He wiped his hands on his trousers (soft, less job interview and more casual movie night) and glanced at the clock on the waiting room wall. It hung next to a muted painting, above a shelf of clinical brochures. Owen had read through all the info materials, some of them twice.
The clock ticked to one minute before the appointed time. She was supposed to be punctual – always on the second, he’d heard that from two different people. So, sixty seconds to go. Well, fifty-two now.
And he didn’t feel ready at all.
The lady behind the reception desk gave him an encouraging smile, and Owen smiled back at her as though he weren’t waiting for the most unusual thing he’d ever done in his life. He straightened up a bit. Come on, he told himself. You’re ready for this.
He’d tried to be. He had read the forms, asked all the important questions. He’d waited weeks for the appointment and filled out the intake with meticulous honesty, even when the questions had made him flush where he sat alone at his kitchen table. He’d done the responsible thing, read her protocols, her credentials, the rules around consent.
He wasn’t walking into this blind.
And yet …
He shifted again on the bench, trying to look more casual and less like a man who’d almost cancelled the appointment twice this morning.
The door labeled ‘Session Room B’ clicked open and a woman stepped into view. Slender, dressed in soft grey, dark hair pinned back on her head. She didn’t look like he had expected – not that he knew what he had expected. Someone colder, maybe, perhaps dressed in a labcoat. But she only looked … composed, was the word that came to his mind. Precise.
Her gaze flicked to him. “Owen?”
He nodded and stood up, clearing his throat. “Yes.”
“Come in.” She left the door open for him to follow.
Her office – or was it a studio? – was different from the waiting room. The colours were warmer here. There was a small desk by the window, a grey armchair in a corner, and the heavy curtains were pulled almost all the way shut. A faint hum of white noise emanated from somewhere behind a frosted glass panel. Next to the door stood a narrow cabinet, closed.
She gestured for him to sit.
He obeyed and, after a moment of internal debate, decided on folding his hands in his lap.
She closed the door, then pulled the second chair from behind the desk and set it so they sat facing each other – not close enough to reach, but not separated by furniture. From close up like this, Owen noticed that her eyes were light, more grey than blue.
“I’m Claire,” she said and crossed her legs, resting both hands on one knee. “I would like to confirm a few things before we discuss how to proceed from here.”
Owen nodded and tried to take a deep breath in a way that wouldn’t be visible to her.
Claire reached for a file on the desk, a blue paper folder. She flipped it open to a previously marked page and read aloud a few of the keyphrases he remembered writing in a haze of nervous honesty. “Owen Reid. Twenty-seven, single, new to pain in any structured setting.” She looked up. “Still accurate?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes.”
Claire didn’t smile, exactly. But something around her eyes softened. “Are you nervous?” And, as if guessing what he had been meaning to say, she added, “The truth.”
“Um … yeah. I guess.”
“It’s not something to be ashamed of. Or lie about. We can work with fear. In fact, it often enhances the experience.” She glanced at the file in her lap. “You mentioned a moderate pain tolerance and a mild case of claustrophobia. Considering I asked you for the truth, would you like to make changes to that?”
Owen breathed again, trying to keep it invisible as before. “It’s … no. I think that’s all right?”
Claire met his eyes. Blue after all, Owen decided. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. “I’ll be guiding you through everything,” she said. “Nothing happens without your consent. You’ll have a safeword, of course. Are you familiar with the concept?”
“Yes, I’ve … I’ve read about it.”
“You have prepared. That’s good. It’s important that you use it whenever you feel you need to. And when I check in with you or ask you a question, I want your real answer, not what you think I want to hear. Clear?”
“Yes,” Owen said, firmly this time.
“Good.” She set the file aside and looked at him.
The silence stretched. Owen held her gaze for three seconds, five. After ten, he grew uncomfortable. After fifteen, he glanced away, towards the window. The city was out there, buzzing and crawling as if this were a perfectly normal Tuesday. As if he weren’t locked in a room with a woman whose name he’d heard only in rumours, answering questions about pain thresholds and safewords.
Owen had found her through a network he hadn’t known existed until six months ago. It had been half word-of-mouth, half an intriguing between-the-lines inside a research article on neuroplasticity and somatic feedback. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he was signing up for, only that the intake process had been more thorough than anything his therapist had ever handed him. A legal waiver, sure, but also three pages on trust, possible triggers, and the very real possibility that he’d break down crying. Which, as far as Owen had understood it, was sort of a desired outcome.
And Claire was still looking at him.
He swallowed. “Is that all for now?”
“If you want it to be,” she replied. “Some people prefer to move very slowly, at a pace which makes them feel safe. Others are more curious about the edge. I don’t hold most of my sessions here – this room isn’t soundproof. But if you’d like a small demonstration before our first real session, I can give you something. Would you like that?”
Owen was surprised to find that his mouth had gone dry. Actually dry, the way he’d only ever read about in novels. Still he managed to say, “Um, what kind of demonstration?”
There it was again, the hint of a smile that wasn’t a smile but still flickered around her mouth. “No,” she said. “That’s not how this works.” She put the paper file aside and leaned closer, elbows resting on her knees. “This is a very important rule I need you to understand, Owen. If you decide to work with me, this is how we do it: I decide what happens. You decide if it happens. Do you understand?”
Truthfully, Owen said, “I’m not sure.”
Her expression softened again. “That was an honest answer. You will learn, if you want. Now, tell me if you give consent for me to show you just a glimmer of the work we can do here.”
Owen inhaled deeply. “Yes. Please.”
“Very good. Wait for me a moment.”
She rose gracefully and walked to the narrow cabinet. Owen tried not to look over his shoulder even as he heard the soft sounds of objects being moved on metal shelves. Then Claire stepped back into his field of vision, carrying a small bag. Black leather.
Of course.
He swallowed and tried not to look at the bag too obviously as she placed it on the desk.
Claire moved her chair forward by half a step, then sat again, closer than before. Her knees almost touched his. “May I take your hand?” she asked.
Owen bit down on the question what she’d do – I decide what happens – and held out his hand. She received it between both of hers, gently like a baby bird.
“We will speak about safewords extensively if and when the time comes,” Claire said. “For now, if you need me to stop, simply say stop. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Okay.”
His hand rested in one of hers. Her skin was cool, her grip steady but not unkind. The fingertips of her other hand traveled across his palm. “There are uncountable ways to cause pain to the human body,” she said, glancing up to meet his eyes. “It is the most versatile instrument imaginable. I prefer to begin with ways that feel non-threatening to the nervous system. Like this, for example.”
She gripped the tender space between his thumb and forefinger. And pressed down.
The pain was immediate, and sharp enough to surprise him. He felt his jaw tighten and tried to relax it.
Her eyes were on him. “Breathe,” she said. “Don’t pull away.”
He hadn’t realised he was trying to. She was still pressing down on his hand, holding it between both of hers like it belonged to her now.
“Unexpectedly intense, isn’t it?” she said. “But not damaging. You’ll be tender here for a while, but nothing lasting.”
Owen began to feel hot. The pain was hot, too, and it made his hand hot, his face, the back of his neck. He tried to breathe in a way she wouldn’t notice.
But she did. “It’s all right,” she said. “Breathe deeply. You don’t need to hold anything back when you are with me, Owen. No movement, no sound, no reaction of your body that is perfectly natural. That is what we want, here.”
She pressed harder, and he inhaled through his teeth.
“Like that. Good.”
The pain radiated, drawing all his attention. Owen clenched his free hand in his lap.
She held the pressure for another three slow seconds before she released her grip. The pain dissolved like ink in water – dulled now, but still present.
She didn’t let go of his hand. “That was thirty seconds. Still with me?”
Owen nodded, but didn’t find words right away. His fingers curled slightly in her hand, as if unsure what had just happened to them. What had just happened?
“This is … weird,” he said at last. Which had sounded smarter in his head.
“Not weird,” Claire corrected. Her hold had shifted; now one of her thumbs was brushing gently across his knuckles. “A little unusual, perhaps. But then, so are many human needs.”
“I don’t need this.”
“Maybe not. I’m saying it wouldn’t be ‘weird’ if you did. Do you want to tell me what that experience was like for you?”
Owen drew in a slow breath and sat up straighter. “I guess … just … a bit more painful than I’d expected?”
She nodded. “I’m not a fan of softening pain too much. Obviously I won’t overwhelm your nervous system, but you’re not here to experience some washed-out version of pain that’s been dressed up neatly to fit expectations. What do you think?”
Owen let out that breath. His shoulders were slowly coming down … further than they had been. “It’s … I don’t know. I thought I’d like it.”
“And you didn’t.”
“Well, no. It hurt.” He frowned. “But I didn’t quite want you to stop, either.”
“That’s not uncommon here,” Claire said. “You don’t need to explain it. But you’re allowed to speak about it, if you want to. This is your space.”
For a moment, Owen allowed his hand to rest heavily in hers. “I’m … strangely tired.”
“That is expected. Your nervous system just went through a storm, it will take some time to settle. This was just a small dip into what’s possible, but I recommend you take time for rest today. Keep yourself warm. Give your body safety signals. I’ll teach you more about those if you choose to continue.”
She squeezed his hand once, then let him go. Gently, like releasing a bird.
Owen flexed his fingers, then looked up at her. “Thank you.”
Claire nodded, then stood up. “I want you to take a few minutes here before heading out. There’s water by the window, or tea if you want it. There’s no rush.”
“Okay.” Owen stood up as well. He glanced towards the black leather bag sitting on the desk. “What’s, um … in there?”
“Maybe you’ll find out at some point,” she said. “Or not. If you want a full session, you can schedule it just as you did this appointment. You’ll get priority now, so you won’t have to wait for weeks. No pressure, though. You’ve already done very well today.”
Owen managed a little smile. “Sounds like you expected me to run.”
“Some people do. And that’s okay. You have full agency here.”
“I don’t want to run.”
Claire smiled, just enough to lift one corner of her mouth. “Good. I’ll see you next time, then.” She paused with her hand on the doorhandle. “You will have some thoughts running through your head today. Perhaps the coming days. If it escalates, we have counseling available.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you around, Owen.”
Outside, the sunlight felt too bright.
Owen squinted as he stepped out of the quiet building and onto the street. It was only early afternoon, a very ordinary spring afternoon, but the sound of traffic, the laughter of passersby, the colours – everything felt just a little too sharp. Overexposed, like the contrast had been turned up on the world.
He stood still for a moment after the door had fallen shut behind him, flexing his hand. It didn’t hurt now, not really. But there was a lingering phantom sensation of cool fingers pressing into sensitive tissue.
Why on earth would he allow that?
Why on earth would he pay for that?
A woman passed him on the pavement, talking into her phone. Someone else brushed by on a scooter. The scent of coffee drifted from a nearby café. It was all so ordinary, and none of it as real as that lingering memory.
He had felt so alive. And some of it pulsed in his blood even now.
Before his mind could start spinning, Owen showed his hands into his pockets and walked. Halfway down to the street corner, he caught a glimpse of himself in a shop window and slowed momentarily, surprised that nothing about him looked different. Same almost-job-interview shirt, same dark hair that resisted most efforts to be smoothed into place. Still twenty-seven and single and aching for something more.
Was this his something more? Paying a woman with pinned-back hair and the hint of a smile to hurt him?
He shook his head at his mirror image and then quickly walked on. His heart thudded with his steps as he sped up.
Eventually, he sat on a bench outside a small park, drinking coffee he hardly remembered ordering. The cup was warm in his hands, and he pressed it against the spot where she had hurt him.
Claire. Such a simple name, almost too small to contain the precision and control she had radiated.
He fished his phone up from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. On Jonah’s name, he paused. Maybe it would be good to talk about it. Share, as people called it these days. But what would he say?
“Hey. I just saw a professional who nearly crushed my hand and I think I liked it. Hope you’re having a good Tuesday.”
That would go down well.
He looked down at his hand and flexed his fingers again. There was no mark – no sign at all that anything out of the ordinary had happened. It felt like a secret, the kind that was both beautiful and too big to hide inside, and yet … where would he take it?
He poured the rest of his coffee into a bush and walked on.
At home, Owen kicked off his shoes in the narrow hallway, dropped his phone face-down on a shelf and washed his hands, taking special care with his left one. He took his time, brushing his fingertips over the sensitive spot, but the pain had mostly faded.
In his living room, everything seemed too quiet. A mute patch of sunlight through curtains lit up the carpet. Distant laughter drifted up from outside and there was a soft hum from the fridge in the kitchen, but nevertheless, Owen could hear his own breathing.
Had she heard it, too, while he had tried to breathe quietly through the pain?
He still had the brochure, tucked away under his pillow in the bedroom. The bed was unmade – he’d been too nervous to even sleep properly. He sat on the edge now and pulled out the brochure. It was glossy, folded in thirds, and just clinical enough to pass as professional despite the … questionable contents. Owen unfolded it slowly.
Her photo was tucked in the lower third of the centre column. She looked straight towards the camera, composed and not smiling. Grey shirt and pale background, the kind of photo that didn’t tell you anything unless you’d met her. But now he had.
The lines beneath her picture read,
Claire Stirling (LCSW, M.Phil). Certified in advanced somatic pain integration, therapeutic surrender, and consent-based behavioral restructuring. Sessions available by application only.
Therapeutic surrender. What did that even mean?
With a groan, Owen let his forehead drop down on the pillow, that infuriating brochure still clutched in one hand. Wasn’t he supposed to feel … clearer, or something? Enlightened? More ready to take on life?
Confused as hell, that was what he was.
The phone number in the brochure was circled in red. He’d done that while waiting through the phone queue, and by the time the assistant had picked up, he’d nearly made a hole in the paper.
He could call again. Book a full session. He had no idea what ‘full session’ entailed. Thirty minutes? Sixty? … Longer?
And what about the pain level?
Moderate pain tolerance, she had noted. He’d written that in one of the forms. But how the hell was he supposed to know? It wasn’t like he’d poked and prodded himself while tracing the pain scale with his fingertips.
But he couldn’t not schedule again. Not when he still wanted to touch that spot on his hand where her fingers had dug in, all while she had spoken to him quietly and calmly like they were discussing a medical procedure. Not when he wanted to know what she’d had in that black leather bag on the desk. Which, in retrospect, she’d probably put there to tease him. Right?
Owen sighed heavily and searched his bed for his phone, remembered that he’d left it in the hallway, went to fetch it and then paused over the number circled in red. At least she hadn’t been dressed in red and black like some bloody dominatrix.
But somehow, she’d looked every bit as intimidating in grey. And as powerful.
Perhaps that was the reason he finally made the call after all.